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Saturday, 27 September 2014

Guest Author Sarah Butland - An excerpt from Blood Day

Sarah Butland was born in Ontario, the year was 1982. She moved to New Brunswick for over 15 years and now resides at home in Nova Scotia, Canada. Butland has been married to her high school sweetheart and has a superstar son named William, and a cat named Russ who all make her house a home.

Blood
Day

I've always been told we all
bleed red, take breaths, and die if poisoned so I often wondered why I wasn't
dead yet.

A pot of live
bouganvilleas was set in the center of my white marble coffee table in the
middle of the stark-white room. The contrast between the white and the deep red
of the flowers was exactly what I had envisioned since I was a little girl. I
just didn't realize I'd actually see it in my very own house.

When I was a young
girl I had discovered my love for contrasts and couldn't ever conform to what
society expected. Each foster family I had visited or lived with, as they'd
say, labeled me with no originality. I was either a challenge, a handful,
difficult, or trouble because I refused to be typical. Something inside always
convinced me I wasn't, so I tried my best to be different.

It wasn't that I
didn't want to get along with at least some of my foster families, it just
didn't happen. Most of the families I was moved into reminded me of “Leave it
to Beaver” when I was more the “Family Guy” type.

Years of rejection
for being myself only strengthened my resolve and character. I guess I'm
thankful for that, but often wonder where I'd be without all of those
complications. Each scar on my left arm was representative of a new family –
upright or corrupt; the ones on my right leg, friendships which could have been
had I been someone else. I stopped before I had to move on to my left leg with
the decision that friendships no longer mattered. That was when I was 24.

I reached out and
broke a single flower from its group and methodically touched each of its stems
thorns with the tip of my index finger. Staring with concentrated effort as
each pricked my finger, broke through my skin but drew no blood. Still, on my
28th birthday my fluid wouldn't drain and I had to wonder why I was
told my birthday was so special.

With memory sharp
and detailed I recalled the legend told to me of what I was and who Iwould be. Each birthday I tested the myth and
each year I was more confused and distraught than the last. I tried to end my
life on many occasions knowing what I may have been missing out on and with
each failed attempt I anticipated more the future. If my life was so important
to continue to live there must be something waiting for me to do and yet I had
no idea what it was.

“Veronica,
you are to cherish each teardrop, every drop of spilled blood and your memory
most of all. We both wish we could stay but it's our destiny to leave you and
we cannot disagree with what the universe has told.”

They were the only
words I ever really listened to. They were the only words said so distinctly,
with such concern and concentration from my birth parents. The moment I could
write I wrote them and the first I could type I saved them to my computer but
neither action was necessary. They were committed to memory like nothing else.
Of course, I learned in school and was at the top of most classes to the
complete confusion of everyone involved. They never could decide if I was
cheating, intelligent but rebellious or what. I liked the “or what” the most.

In high school I
was the one who got along with everyone but befriended no one; the quiet one
who did as she was told except for when it came to gym class. Never one to
dress or undress with others I always forgot my change of clothes, energy and
took on my “attitude” that was rarely seen at school. Failing gym class became
my thing, even more so than surpassing everyone's expectations in art. My
paintings, pastels and photographs often had everyone talking even more about
me and my disturbing behavior but had the student body, even teachers, envious
of my vision for beauty.

It wasn't
surprising to anyone that I became a full-time interior designer and writer in
my free time. Buying, re-decorating, renovating and reselling old houses was my
main income and it never failed to impress me that buyers would see past my own
personality and buy the house for what they could make of it. Real estate
agents constantly suggested I put everything away, leave the house empty or stage
it with their own suggestions so I never listed with them. I rarely followed
tradition even though my parents implied that I should.

It puzzled me for
all my 28 years, minus a few months because my parents waited till then to tell
me. Strange how most kids don't remember their early years even when those are
the most important years of their life. Learning to walk, talk and eat are key
essentials to being human but so is who to trust, love and respect but the
latter are things forgotten. Sometimes, often really, I wondered if I was human
but then my heart would break, I'd feel the need for success no matter who I
stepped on to do it and craved chocolate just like the books told me a human
female would. Nothing else, besides my memory and lack of bleeding screamed
unearthly.

No one sat me down
to explain that I was supposed to bleed regularly every month so it never
crossed my mind that it was weird that I never did. My feminine parts grew as
did everyone else's and I thought this natural.

Another year of
guessing, searching and reshuffling furniture but at least this year I'd be
spending most of it in the home of my dreams. This particular house would not
be sold again as I immediately felt connected with it. Even when the walls were
egg-shell, the couches a boring beige and the lighting too bright and all
wrong. The lights were the first things to go, most of them being taken out
completely while others were changed to cast only a shadow on the few items in
the room.

“Ma'am?
Ma'am?” I turned to find a mover about to tap me on the shoulder and I stepped
back to ask him what he wanted.

“You
may be but nothing that I left behind. Everything is here and as it should be.
The rest I can take care of. Let me get my money clip. Please wait on the step
and I'll be right out.”

“That's
not necessary, ma'am. We were already paid and...”

“Do
as I say and I'll reward you handsomely.” Those words were rarely said and
never failed to have the listener respond accordingly. They were the easiest
words I could get off my tongue as I knew I'd be alone soon after.

As I made my way
upstairs to the guest room I looked over all of the others. It wasn't a large
house but some would say it was too big for one person. Instead I thought it
the perfect size and paid 10% more than the asking price once I saw it. This
ensured I was able to move in the same day, eager to finally be settled, to
have a place of my very own. Even with the few pieces of furniture, for example
the guest bedroom was made up of only a futon, a wardrobe and a shelf filled
with vases of deep red bouganvilleas, the house gave me no impression of being
too much for me.

I reached into the
middle flower pot and retrieved an old coin left to me by my parents. There
were a handful of these that I dragged from place to place and still really
didn't understand the value of them. I just liked seeing the eyes of the people
receiving them light up in surprise. I held it carefully in my hand as I
envisioned the workers and slowly counted to four as I made my way down the
spiral staircase. When I opened the door and saw the four men standing on the
porch I opened my clenched fist.

The men stared
down at the four coins now resting in my hand and each were nervous to take
one. I was as grateful as I was nervous about their comments continuing about
my long sleeves in the sweltering heat. Although I mainly dressed completely
from neck and wrist to ankle, the temperature never seemed to bother me. I
often thought I was cold-blooded but that could only be true if I confirmed I
even had blood to be cold.

The men cautiously
took what I was offering and disappeared into their trucks and down the road.
Standing for a minute to take in my neighbourhood of trees, fields and flowers,
I concluded it was soon time to plant my garden. Of course I'd hire some help
for the mandatory lawn maintenance but the weeding, planting and digging would
be my pleasure. That afternoon I planned to visit the local nursery, which, by
road, was twenty minutes away. Pure seclusion was what I thrived on, what I
always craved so something I often rewarded myself with.

Turning, I closed
the front door and made my way to the family room where I knew there would
never be a family. At least not of the traditional sense. Catching my
reflection in the full length mirror I caught my breath, startled at what I
saw.

Thank you Sarah for sharing an excerpt of your story. Read the rest of Blood Day which is available at amazon.com. You can discover more about Sarah at www.sarahbutland.com

I am so excited to announce that next week on the 4Q Interview you will get to meet one of the greatest new voices in jazz, Kitty LaRoar from London, England.

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Wall of War

Allan Hudson

About Me

My mother taught me to read, to like books, when I was very young. She also taught me how to write. I grew up in the country, even went to a one-room school which was right across the road from our house. She was the teacher. The days I missed were few.

Writing is so much fun and even though I started later in life, I am so happy to realize my dream. Having this blog so I can share other people's work gives me great pleasure.

I've had many adventures in my life. I've travelled throughout North America, gone skydiving, rock climbing, wilderness camping. I craft stained glass and I enjoy woodworking. I'm blessed with many good friends.

I live in the seaside community of Cocagne, New Brunswick, Canada. My wife's name is Gloria. My son's name is Adam and my stepsons' names are Christopher (Mireille) and Mark (Nathalie) Young. My grandchildren are Matthieu, Natasha and Damien. I love them all.

Thank you for visiting. I hope you enjoy my blog. You can reach me by leaving a comment and/or your email address and I'll respond.

Family and Friends.

Review of Wall of War

Buy it Here

Wall of War is available at Amazon.com, Amazon.ca, Cover to Cover in Riverview, Cocagne Variety in Cocagne and from the author.

The Douglas Kyle Memorial Award for Fiction

My story - The Ship Breakers - received Honorable Mention in the Douglas Kyle Memorial awards for New Brunswick Writers Federation's short story category. Watch for it with the coming selection of short stories to be published in 2018